Chapter 9 - The Ghost’s Vengeance
The Grand Ballroom at the Plaza Hotel was bathed in crystal light and gold velvet.
Over two hundred of the East Coast’s most powerful figures—corrupt politicians, syndicate bosses, high-society elites, and cartel representatives—were gathered for Vance DeLuca’s emergency summit.
Vance stood at the head of the raised stage, wearing a tailored navy suit, holding a crystal glass of scotch. He looked every bit the triumphant king taking his throne.
“Friends,” Vance’s voice echoed through the massive sound system, full of solemn deceit. “It is with a heavy heart that I address you tonight. As many of you know, my beloved nephew, Roman DeLuca, tragically perished two nights ago in a fire at his Westchester estate.”
A collective, quiet murmur swept through the crowd.
“Roman was a strong leader,” Vance continued, dabbing at his eye with a silk handkerchief. “But his methods were chaotic. He brought too much heat. Tonight, as the senior patriarch of the DeLuca family, I step forward to assume full control of the eastern operations—”
BANG.
The heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom blew inward with explosive force.
The heavy oak doors smashed onto the marble floor, echoing through the cavernous room like thunder.
The crowd screamed, scattering in panic as armed security guards drew their weapons.
Through the drifting smoke walked a single man.
Roman DeLuca.
He was wearing a tailored black suit, his dark hair slicked back, a faint scar running along his jaw from the fire. He walked with slow, deliberate authority down the center aisle, his hands casually tucked into his trousers pockets.
Behind him, flanked by twenty heavily armed, loyal DeLuca soldiers who had remained faithful to the true boss, was Julian—bound in heavy iron chains, his face bloody and beaten.
Vance dropped his glass of scotch. It shattered on the stage floor.
“Impossible,” Vance gasped, his face turning the color of ash. “You… you died in the shed.”
“You always were bad at math, Uncle Vance,” Roman’s voice carried across the silent, terrified room like a hammer striking iron. He stepped onto the stage, stopping five feet from his uncle.
“You thought a little fire and a locked door would be enough to kill me?” Roman asked quietly, his eyes dark with absolute judgment. “You thought you could touch my empire? My people?”
“Roman—listen to me—it was a mistake!” Vance stammered, backing away until his knees hit the velvet podium. “Julian acted alone! He betrayed us both!”
Roman didn't even glance at Julian. He reached into his inner pocket, pulled out a small digital recorder, and pressed play.
Vance’s own voice blasted out through the ballroom speakers: “A maid and her kid got caught in the perimeter. We locked them in with him to clean up the edge. No loose ends, Uncle Vance.”
The entire room went dead silent. The hardened crime bosses in the crowd exchanged disgusted looks. In their world, violence was business. But burning a three-year-old child alive was an unspeakable violation of the code.
Vance looked around the room, realizing in a terrifying flash that every single ally he had just bought had deserted him.
“Roman… please,” Vance whimpered, dropping to his knees. “We’re blood.”
Roman looked down at the pathetic man kneeling before him.
“Blood,” Roman whispered, “doesn’t make you family, Vance. Loyalty does.”
Roman raised his hand and made a subtle gesture. Two loyal lieutenants stepped forward, dragged Vance and Julian off the stage, and hauled them into the dark service corridor behind the stage.
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Roman turned to face the room of two hundred syndicate leaders. He buttoned his suit jacket, standing tall, undamaged, and completely dominant.
“My empire,” Roman declared, his voice cutting through the hall like a razor, “is officially open for business. And if anyone else fancies a fire… I suggest you bring more water.”
